


Cave Inimicum

by ButterflyGhost, kalijean



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [39]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean





	Cave Inimicum

I'm not so sure that I can contain Inspector Thatcher. 

As a means for a Muggle to discover the Wizarding world, this is not the one I would have chosen, and while Ms. Turnbull is patiently and quietly explaining it all, Thatcher is by no means accepting the explanation as patiently.

Who can blame her? At times I can scarcely believe it myself, and I was born into this mess. Of course Thatcher is dismissive... insultingly so. I would imagine that, at this point, she has concluded that mental illness runs in Turnbull's family. I shudder to think how she would react if she had ever been introduced to mine.

I'd point out to Ms. Turnbull that Thatcher will only be obliviated later anyway, but it gives her something to do. Thatcher is busy, Ms Turnbull is busy... and why do I feel guilty about this? Why do I feel as though I'm manipulating both women, just trying to keep them busy while the wizards get on with the real world? Certainly Ms Turnbull deserves better than that. I feel like a bigot, one of those purists who delight in their prejudice against muggles and half-bloods. Against people like my mother, people like me.

It curdles in my stomach, that I am leaving the women to this conversation, but it needs to be done. Because I can't let Thatcher face this unprepared. And Ms Turnbull, she is so much her brother's sister. She wants to protect, to serve, to save someone. I get the feeling that she did that for Turnbull, when they were both children. It's in her nature. So I let her explain to Thatcher, and hope that she can forgive us wizards for our arrogance. And... more than that, more than anything... while Thatcher is busy, Ms. Turnbull is busy. This means not concentrating on the fact that her brother very likely perished back there.

Perished. It's a lonely word. I'm trying not to think of it. Of Turnbull perishing.

Wouldn't I know? How can you be friends with someone, and not know a thing like that?

And I am only a colleague... what must his sister be feeling? 

Keep her busy, keep her sane. 

For Inspector Thatcher's part, of course, all this presents her with something to do other than ranting at me. I have never been one for insubordination but she hasn't quite caught up to the fact that in this situation, I do outrank her.

Of course, she doesn't understand quite yet that this situation is real. Sometime soon she will have to accept it, or go under, but in the long run... Dear Lord, I hope that she never does remember. I hate to obliviate anyone, but sometimes it is the greatest mercy. How many times have I wished that I had forgotten... well... something. Dear Lord, may Thatcher never remember.

It is beyond me to question the structuring of the RCMP, but I have occasionally wondered whether it was wise to integrate to quite this level. It makes for better liasing with the muggles, but they're kept dangerously close. I wonder if it causes more problems than it solves. We become the arbiters of their memories, and really... who are we to twist their lives?

Thatcher wants answers. Tobin is with us. I'd send her to find out if her master lives, but if the Death Eaters are ransacking the Consulate she'd likely just be killed. And... and I'm frightened of the answer. Because if she were to return empty clawed, then I have no choice but to accept it. That Turnbull is gone. And if he is gone, then so is Vecchio... and...

I'm not ready for that. I can't stand that. They're not gone. 

Gently I drift my finger tips above the owl's head, a feather touch. As long as she is here, so is a part of Turnbull. And I didn't feel him die... not yet. Not him, not his Ray. And if they had died, I would have known it.

If they had died, I don't want to know it. 

In the next room I hear the women argue. I close my eyes, and let it flow over me. They are busy. The war has taken a breath. We have a moment, a tiny moment's peace.

For all the good it will do.


End file.
